


forget the hearse ('cause i'll never die)

by r_astra



Series: back in black [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky is fashionably late, Clint Barton Has Issues, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton-centric, Deaf Clint Barton, Fraction's Hawkeye, Gen, Hurt Steve Rogers, MCU Clint Barton, POV Clint Barton, Pre-Canon, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, is just a grown-up, let's pretend that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 19:57:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17752484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_astra/pseuds/r_astra
Summary: The timing really couldn't have been worse. Clint tried to imagine a worse scenario, but he either wasn't that creative or it really was the worst possible time.HYDRA nabs Clint in the months after Natasha comes in from the cold, shoves him in a double-occupancy cell, and there is definitely something wrong with his new roommate.





	forget the hearse ('cause i'll never die)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from AC/DC's _Back in Black_.
> 
> So this idea just popped into my head one day: there had to be a lot of stuff that "SHIELD" found that went straight into HYDRA's hands without the good guys ever getting a look at it. What if that happened to something a little more important?

Because Clint was Clint, and somehow this shitshow of a life was what he ended up with, he tripped when the guard pushed him into the cell, barely managing to avoid busting up his face.

The archer blinked rapidly as he regained his footing, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the low light. It took four seconds for him to realize there was someone else in the cell.

The guy was big and blond and pretty out of it, propped up in the back corner with his eyes closed.

“Hey,” Clint said. “Hey.”

The bigger man opened his eyes halfway and stared at him for a moment, then leaned his head back into the corner and closed them again.

Whatever.

It took eleven seconds to explore the small, dimly lit cell, noting the faint hum coming from the bars (thank fuck these morons hadn’t noticed his aids) and the notches marring the concrete walls.

“You make these?” Clint asked his cellmate.

Unsurprisingly, he didn’t get a response.

His exploration complete, Clint settled into the other back corner and eyed the bigger man.

He was young, early- to mid-twenties, with about a week’s worth of beard and hair buzzed short. 

He was built like a tank, but his cheeks were hollow like he hadn’t had a square meal in a while, and he was too pale to be healthy.

“What’s your name?” he asked idly and was unsurprised when the man failed to respond.

Clint stared at his new cellmate for a few moments longer, then gave up and settled into his own corner, hoping for a bit of sleep. He wondered if the batteries in his aids would last, then shuddered internally. He was very, very glad for SHIELD’s tech department right then. The aids he’d been using just a few years before would’ve been drained in a week, tops.

Hopefully, their rescue department was just as good.

If they bothered to look.

Shit.

Would they? He’d only been with SHIELD for a handful of years and he knew he wasn’t exactly a model agent, but he was useful, he was good at this job. Really fucking good.

They wouldn’t—

No. Fury was efficient, he wouldn’t waste an asset.

He was dozing off after a few minutes, wondering if Coulson would notice he was gone. They had argued the day before. The older agent would probably let him cool his heels for a while, let him go off the grid, except he wasn’t _off the fucking grid_ he was in a cell—

The timing really couldn't have been worse. He tried to imagine a worse scenario, but he either wasn't that creative or it really was the worst possible time. Fuck, sometimes Clint went dark for _weeks_ after a bad argument.

Coulson would have a mission for him within the month, he had to notice then, right? Yeah, yeah, he’d notice then. And Natasha—shit, Natasha would probably assume he’d just left her, _fuck—_

“Steve,” the man said quietly.

“What?” Clint asked, glad for the distraction.

“My name is Steve.”

“Hi Steve,” he answered, voice strained. “I’m Clint.”

 

They came for Steve the first time after what Clint guessed to be about 12 hours, but he couldn’t say for sure. The lights stayed on constantly, flickering and dim as they were. They hadn’t received any food.

When they came for him, Steve just got up and shuffled slowly out of the cell, head down, but the guards were twitchy. Their eyes followed Steve’s every move, hands flinching to their guns  
when he stumbled.

The screaming started a while after he disappeared down the hall.

Steve screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

He screamed so much and so loud that Clint, hands clasped over his head to block out the sound, thought _there goes my roommate_ , thought _just fucking end it already._

He couldn’t bear to take out his aids to block it out, terrified they were going to come for him next.

Hours later, they dumped Steve back in the cell, twitching and unconscious.

“What the fuck are they doing to you?” Clint breathed as he struggled to flip the bigger man over, noting the bruising on his face and arms.

He tilted Steve’s head to get a better look at the bruises on his temple and suddenly, he was on his back on the floor, Steve’s forearm locked under his chin.

“Steve,” he managed and the bigger—holy shit the guy was heavy—man blinked at him, fierce intensity fading from his eyes.

“Buck?” he said, confused, rolling off Clint gracefully.

“Clint, remember?” Clint rasped, massaging his throat. “Your new roommate?”

Steve just stared at him and Clint suddenly felt ill.

“Remember?” the marksman repeated.

Steve tilted his head, confused, and kept staring. “Clint,” he sounded out carefully. “I’m Steve.”

“Yeah, buddy,” Clint said warily. “I know. We met the other day.”

Steve stared at him, uncomprehending, and Clint’s stomach dropped.

Jesus _Christ_ , he was a _kid_. What the fuck were they doing to him?

Steve settled into his corner and leaned his head against the wall.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Clint promised, but Steve wasn’t listening.

The next time Clint woke up, the bruising was gone.

 

Not long after Steve stopped twitching, the guards came for him again.

Instead of day and night, Clint’s days were split into screaming and twitching.

He wasn’t sure which he hated more. He also hated not knowing what the hell was going on with Steve. They were trying to condition him, that much Clint was pretty sure about, but unless his grasp on time was slipping away faster than he thought, there was something… _different_ about Steve.

Between screaming sessions, Clint figured there were about 12-15 hours. Maybe a bit more. He was almost positive there were never more than 18 or so. And yet, somehow, Steve’s bruises were always gone by the next session.

Sometimes, the bruising was light enough that it didn’t weird Clint out too much, but one time, Steve came back with ugly, deep purple bruises marring his abdomen that looked awfully boot-shaped.

Clint had _had_ bruises like that. More times than he wanted to think about. They did not disappear in less than 24 hours.

But Steve’s did.

And that made Clint awfully worried. Because Steve seemed like a decent guy, but he wasn’t exactly stable and Clint had a sick feeling in his gut that said: _no one conditions people to make people, they condition people to make weapons._

And Steve, young, once-blond, soft-spoken Steve, who repeated over and over again _who are you? Hi, I’m Steve_ , sometimes sad, sometimes bone tired, sometimes with a grateful smile on his hollowed-out face, _did not deserve that._

They came for Clint, eventually.

 

The archer laughed at the recruitment speech, which he knew was stupid. He knew Natasha—silent, wickedly smart Natasha, who had finally started to relax and _fuck_ he promised he wouldn’t leave her he promised—would have played it better, would have pretended to play along, then gotten out of dodge as soon as she’d earned a bit of trust.

Not for the first time, Clint wished he were a better liar.

Fucking _HYDRA_ , of all things, though. Come on, man.

“Do you know who these people are?” he asked Steve when he was dumped back into the cell. 

“They’re motherfucking _Nazis._ ”

Steve looked at him blankly. “They’re not Germans.”

“Well, I guess HYDRA expanded their ranks.”

“HYDRA,” Steve murmured carefully, his eyes twitching. “But Schmidt is dead.”

Clint frowned. “Umm, yeah. Little more confused by how they managed to fly under the radar this long.”

Steve didn’t respond, just hummed noncommittally. Clint wasn’t entirely sure he’d even heard anything he said.

“Who are you?”

Something was _very wrong_ with Steve.

“I’m Clint, Steve. Remember?”

Steve didn’t answer.

Clint’s gaze drifted to the marks on the walls, the thousands of little lines etched into the concrete. He tried not to think about how long Steve had been here.

Eventually, Clint would be missed, and then Coulson would be looking. If Coulson didn’t find him in a day or two, Natasha would be looking, too. If she didn’t think he’d abandoned her. If SHIELD would let her out of their sight.

It wasn’t a guarantee, but it was something. Clint thought of Steve’s dead-eyed stare and figured he could hold on to that something for a good long while.

When Clint woke up, it was to Steve being led out of the room, four twitchy guards watching him as he shuffled slowly out of the cell.

 

“Jesus, kid, they’re afraid of you,” Clint huffed after the guards had brought him back on a particularly good day, one where Steve had walked back into the cell under his own power. Eight guards had escorted him, half of them with guns aimed and half with their hands at their holsters.

“I think,” Steve said slowly. “I killed a few of them. A long time ago.”

“Good,” Clint answered sharply, and Steve frowned at him. “I hope you got a lot of them.”

Steve hummed noncommittally and closed his eyes.

“You tried to escape, too, didn’t you? A long time ago? That’s why the bars are electrified?”

Steve just shrugged lethargically. “Don’t remember. Think so.”

“Steve,” Clint asked carefully. “How long have you been here?”

The younger man didn’t answer.

The next time he came back, Clint said: “Take it easy, Steve.”

And Steve said: “Who’s Steve?”

 

“Your name is Steve. I’m Clint. We’re prisoners of HYDRA. Drink some water,” Clint repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. He’d taken to saying it every chance he got, like a mantra. 

_You’re Steve, you’re Steve, you’re Steve, your name is Steve._

“Steve,” Steve repeated slowly. “Steve.”

“That’s right,” Clint encouraged. “You’re Steve.”

The younger man sipped at the water, eyeing Clint suspiciously. “How deep in enemy territory are we?”

“What?”

“How far,” Steve asked slowly, like Clint was stupid. “behind the lines?”

“Steve,” Clint said carefully. “What lines? Where were you when they got you?”

The younger man frowned. “On the front. Where else?”

“Where else,” Clint mouthed, considering. “Well, I was in Columbia, so…”

“Columbia?” Steve muttered, confused. “Why was… Schmidt doesn’t… he isn’t…” He dug his fingers into his shorn scalp.

“Easy, pal,” Clint said. “What’s wrong?”

“Schmidt…fuck. I don’t remember. Why don’t I remember? _Fuck._ ”

“Easy now, Steve. You’re remembering more than you usually do, it’s alright.” Or maybe he was making shit up, but Clint was trying to be optimistic. _On the front._ “You want to walk me through everything you remember?”

Steve took a deep breath and looked at him. “Who are you?”

“Clint,” he sighed. “My name’s Clint. You’re Steve. We’re prisoners of HYDRA.”

 

It was rattling him more than he liked to admit, watching Steve unravel. 

“You’re Steve. I’m Clint,” he repeated. “We’re prisoners of HYDRA.”

Occasionally, he’d get back:

“Schmidt is dead.” 

Or: “How far behind the lines?”

Sometimes, he’d get weird ones back: “Did we win?” or “Gotta get to a wireless.”

Once: “Sure wish Howard had figured out that beacon.”

More and more often, he got nothing back but an empty stare.

Weeks—days, months, years, who knew at this point—after he’d been captured, the man who’d offered him a place in HYDRA showed up at the cell.

“Soldier,” he snapped, and Steve leapt to attention like a dog called to heel. The anxiety and sheer terror pouring off him was almost tangible. The man smiled.

“Leave him the _fuck_ alone,” Clint snarled, stepping in front of Steve.

“Attached, are we?” the man laughed coldly, meeting Clint’s gaze. “Remove him, soldier.”

Clint tensed, but didn’t move.

“Soldier!” the man snapped as Steve did nothing. “Remove him.”

Clint could hear Steve’s breathing behind him, ragged and shallow, but the man didn’t move an inch.

The man snarled wordlessly and punched in the code to open the door. The guards flooded the cell, wrenching Clint’s arms behind him and shoving him out the door. Steve just followed, guns trained on his head, his heart.

They were taking them where they took Steve.

Fuck.

Clint _did not want to know_ where they took Steve.

The guards dragged Clint into a harshly lit room and wrangled his hands into a pair of cuffs as they forced him to his knees in front of an intimidating-looking chair in the center of the room.

Steve stepped over to the chair without having to be told and settled into it with a harsh exhale, his eyes wild. His hands were shaking.

Fuck, Clint did _not_ want to see this.

The man in charge circled in front of Clint, looking down at him. “This is what happens when you interfere. Remember it.”

“Fuck you,” Clint hissed and got backhanded for his trouble.

The chair hissed in front of him and a man in a white lab coat shoved a mouthguard between Steve’s teeth, pushing him against the back of the chair. Thick metal restraints closed against Steve’s arms and Clint _did not want to see this_ but he couldn’t look away.

Steve was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly, frantically, as the metal headpiece came down around his temples and— _fuck fuck fuck_

He’d thought the screaming had been bad from down the hall.

Clint struggled to focus on something, anything, other than the strangled screams coming from the chair.

“Report,” the man commanded one of the lab techs somewhere behind Clint, and he latched onto the conversation like a lifeline.

“It’s taking much longer than it did with the other one, sir.” The other one?

“But it will work, yes?”

“Theoretically, sir, but we’re unsure how to counteract—”

Steve seized in the chair, his arms straining against the restraints and Clint lost the thread for a minute (Jesus, he was a _kid_ ), but he dragged his focus back to the report.

“—they keep the Asset on a cocktail of specially designed substances, but this one burns through them in minutes, no matter how much we give him. He wasn’t designed to be controlled.”

“But the wipes are functioning?”

“As far as we can tell, yes. It’s obedience that’s the problem. If I could see the Asset’s early files, from the first stages of conditioning…”

“You’ll have them by the end of the week,” the man assured. “It took decades to mold the Asset. This is good progress.”

And then there was nothing to distract him.

 

“We’re getting out of here,” Clint promised, sitting in the cell hours later with an unresponsive Steve curled up tight in the corner. “I swear to God, Steve, we’re getting out of here.”

 

With nothing else to do to distract him from what was happening to Steve when they took him away, Clint thought a lot about what the tech said that day. About the _other one_ , the Asset. About Steve burning through drugs in minutes and he wasn’t _designed to be controlled._

HYDRA didn’t make Steve, he decided one day. They just found him.

And where the _fuck_ does one stumble upon a guy that heals ten times faster than a normal person, is apparently immune to sedatives or whatever they tried to control him with, and, going by the size of the restraints on that _fucking chair_ was way stronger than anyone had the right to be.

Steve was—

Steve.

Clint sat bolt upright and cursed himself up one wall and down the other.

_Steve._

“On the front,” he repeated scathingly. “Where else? Fucking _wireless._ ”

He laid back down and stared at the marks on the wall, shaking his head.

“Schmidt is dead,” he quoted, then laughed breathlessly. “How many times has he said that? You fucking _moron._ ” 

Either he was crazy, or he was sharing a cell with Captain America.

 

Once Steve was back in the cell, it was painfully obvious. Clint almost couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen in straight away, but to be fair, it’s not every day an American icon rises from the _fucking grave._

“Do you know what year it is, Steve?” he asked after the usual greeting, after Steve knew (even if Clint’s not sure if he actually _remembers_ or if he’s just going on Clint’s word) his name again.  
The younger man looked at him tiredly. “No.”

“Do you know what year it was when you got here?” Clint amended, glancing at the marked wall.

Steve frowned, thinking, then said: “’45.”

Clint exhaled slowly, nodding. “You know your name?”

“I’m Steve,” he replied.

“Your last name?”

“I’m Steve,” Captain America repeated quietly, urgently.

“Yeah, buddy,” Clint breathed, rubbing his face. “You’re Steve.”

The next time they took him, Clint tried to count the marks. He lost count somewhere past a thousand and didn’t try again.

“You’re Steve,” he said when they brought him back. “I’m Clint.”

 

Clint was tired of waiting for Coulson.

“Steve,” he said in one of the other man’s particularly lucid moments. “These guys are HYDRA. You fight HYDRA, right? That’s like your whole deal.”

Steve just stared at him.

Clint tried again. “The Red Skull. Schmidt? He was HYDRA.”

“Schmidt is dead,” Steve said, the words worn and familiar. Clint hoped he still remembered why they were important.

“Right. He’s dead. You killed him, remember?” Steve just stared. “You did. And these guys are just as bad. We need to stop them. Stop HYDRA.”

“Stop HYDRA,” Steve repeated carefully. “Gotta stop HYDRA.”

“Yes!” Clint crowed. “Exactly. But to do that, we’ve gotta get out of here. We have to escape.”

“Escape,” Steve said dubiously. “Where?”

“Back to SH—” Clint stopped himself. There was no SHIELD in 1945. “We have to regroup.”

Steve nodded slowly. “Regroup,” he echoed, tilting his head back against the wall.

“Right. There are people looking for us, but I’m not sure—” that there’ll be much of Steve left by the time they got there “—they’ll find us soon enough. If we work together, do you think we can overpower the guards when they come for you?”

Steve was asleep.

Clint sighed and ran a hand roughly through his hair. This wasn’t going to be easy.

 

Over the next days (weeks?) Clint meticulously counted the footsteps of the guards as they walked about the compound, trying to figure out the lengths of the corridors.

If he’d been alone, he probably would’ve gone straight for the vents, but he—

Well, he wasn’t sure Steve would _fit_ in the vents.

He also wasn’t sure if he could keep him awake if he wasn’t standing up, he was sleeping so much these days. It seemed like he spent ninety percent of the time he wasn’t screaming himself hoarse propped in his corner asleep. It was worrying.

They’d stopped taking him so often, the whole protocol seemed to have changed. Steve didn’t shake so much, but he almost never made it back on his own two feet. He still screamed.

Clint tried not to think about how much damage they were doing to his brain.

He had to admit, he’d gotten sort of attached to the big guy. He wondered if Barney had ever felt like—

Viciously, he shoved the thought back.

He already knew the answer, anyway.

He swallowed hard and dropped into a set up push ups, trying to burn away the thought.

Fuck, he was pathetic.

He glanced over at Steve between sets and was surprised to see him awake. He was looking at his hands, brow furrowed.

Clint folded his legs and spun around to face him. “What’s up, Steve?”

Steve’s glance was quick and a little guilty, the look that meant he probably had forgotten his name again. Clint nudged his knee, prompting.

“They’re,” Steve hesitated. “They’re too big.”

“Your hands?”

“I—” Steve exhaled, eyes a little wild. “They’re too big.”

“You had a growth spurt,” Clint supplied, and wasn’t that an understatement. He hadn’t read a comic in years (he wasn’t _Coulson_ ) but that kind of thing was hard to forget, especially for a kid like Clint was. Little scrawny orphan who always gets beat on suddenly grows ten inches and big ass muscles? It had hit home for little Clint, before everything went from bad to worse. After the circus, comparing himself to Captain America was more likely to send him into a downward spiral than anything else.

God only knew how Coulson could look at those trading cards every morning and not walk out of every room Clint walked into.

“I did?” Steve said, and Clint refocused.

“What?”

“I… grew?” Steve looked so confused, it was physically painful. He was going to kill everyone in this building, and they’d _thank him_ if he did it before Phil found out they did this to Captain fucking America.

“Yeah, you…uh,” Clint scratched his head. “You used to be really small, and then a doctor helped you out, and you grew.”

“The serum,” Steve mumbled, and Clint’s pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding his system.

“What else? Steve, what else do you remember?”

“I—” Steve put his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp. “The serum. And the, the box. Howard. Howard put me in a box.”

“Howard Stark?”

Steve moaned, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. “It hurts.”

“Easy, Steve.”

“There’s so much, Clint. There’s too much.”

“There’s too much what?”

“Stuff. In my head. It’s—”

Steve rocketed to his feet, faster than Clint had ever seen him move. He went straight for the bars.

“Steve, those are—” The super soldier slammed against the bars. “electrified,” Clint finished as Steve seized up.

It barely slowed him down. He went apeshit on the bars, slamming himself against them over and over, bellowing like a raging bull.

Well, Clint understood now why the guards were so afraid of him.

The bars were not going to hold up against this much longer, Steve was like a human battering ram, but he was making so much noise the guards were going to be on them any minute. 

Clint hadn’t worked out the floorplan yet, the time wasn’t right, but—

But Steve was _remembering._

And Clint really didn’t want to know what the scientists in that god-forsaken lab were going to do about that.

So, he said: “Steve, man, you gotta keep it down.”

If anything, he yelled louder, breath harsh and fast, the line of his bare shoulders tense with fury. 

But the bars were coming down.

Clint rolled his shoulders, shook out his hands.

The bars came down in a crash and Steve was out in an instant, turning…left?

“Steve!” Clint hissed, following after him like a shot. “Other way, Steve!”

Steve moved like a predator, like a lion on the prowl.

Oh, fuck.

He was headed toward the lab, away from the probable exit.

“Steve,” Clint insisted, jogging to keep up. “Steve, we’ve gotta get out of here.”

“I gotta get Buck. We’ve gotta get Buck, Clint.”

“Aw, fuck,” Clint breathed, stopping dead in his tracks. “Bucky? Bucky Barnes?”

“Gotta get Buck,” Steve muttered. “Gotta—not without Buck.”

“Steve, man,” Clint said lowly, stepping in his path. “Bucky’s not here. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but he’s not here. You know he’s not here.”

Steve shoved by him heedlessly. “He wouldn’t leave without me. I can’t leave him, Clint.”

“He’s—” Clint shoved past his hesitation ruthlessly, hearing running boots behind them. “He’s dead, Steve. _He’s not here._ ”

Steve made a sound like a wounded dog, half confusion, half pain, but he kept going.

“He’s not here, _Steve—_ ”

Steve took an abrupt right and slammed his shoulder into the third door down, breaking it down with one good hit.

“Steve, listen—”

Oh.

Clint stopped in his tracks.

Steve stepped up to a control console, running his hand over it for a moment before flipping switches and pressing buttons in a stuttered sequence, like he was half-remembering.

Was that—? No. That’s not—

The cryo-chamber hissed open, fog billowing, and the man inside opened his eyes.

“Oh, fuck,” Clint breathed, but Steve didn’t hesitate. He was at the chamber in an instant.

The man, dark-haired and pale tried to step forward and stumbled, his limbs slow and clumsy. 

He crumpled right into Steve’s waiting arms.

Steve wasted no time throwing the man over his—was that a _metal arm?_ —shoulders in a textbook fireman’s carry.

“Steve, buddy,” Clint managed, jogging again to keep up with him as he stalked down the hallways like he had them memorized and shit how long has Steve been here? “Man, that’s the _Winter Soldier._ ”

“His name’s Bucky,” Steve answered absently, peeking around a corner.

“No, no, Steve, that is not Bucky Barnes!”

But Steve just kept going.

How was this his life?

 

They hit their first obstacle in the stairwell: half a dozen goons dressed in black tac gear. Steve dropped his new assassin friend (prisoner?) in the corner and charged, taking at least two bullets before he reached them, but then—

Well, Steve got the better deal out of that one. Clint was starting to think that the Captain America of the comic books was maybe just a little sugar coated.

The marksman scooped up any weapons he liked the look of, shoving a pistol in the back of his jeans, a rifle over his shoulder, and another in his hands, extra clips in his pockets, down his pants, anywhere they’d fit. 

Steve just carried the Soldier.

Clint pushed past the pair to take the lead as they exited the stairwell, clearing each hall they turned into, muscle memory taking over.

Steve just barreled, like a freight car, too much momentum for Clint to have any hope of redirecting it, much less stopping him. Steve was just going to have to run this one.

They ran across another group of lackeys and Clint took them out with furious precision, a double tap for each riot-helmeted asshole.

Thank fuck the Soldier hadn’t warmed up yet.

(—and now he got why they called him the Winter Soldier, goddamn HYDRA assholes and their lack of creativity—)

Clint was almost proud of them for blowing through these losers like tin soldiers and then they hit the ambush.

“Fuck,” Clint breathed, and started shooting. Steve was a blur of motion, the Soldier off his back. 

He kicked, a HYDRA agent going flying, his riot shield stuck in Steve’s iron grip, and that was when the party really got started. Steve tossed the shield to Clint and got another one just before the barrage of bullets started.

Steve bowled through their ranks like a wrecking ball, and Clint pointedly did not think about how open his back was, the number of bullets he already had in him, and just shot around a maze of shields and helmets and body armor to hit soft flesh, fragile organs. Protecting Steve the best he could.

It wasn’t going to be enough. There were too many. Steve was bleeding—God, he was covered in red.

And suddenly the Winter Soldier had tucked himself in behind the shield with Clint, cold hands tugging the extra rifle off his shoulder.

Clint swung his rifle around, wicked fast, but a metal hand caught the barrel, blue eyes meeting his gaze steadily and _fuck_ what were the chances that the Winter Soldier was Bucky fucking Barnes this whole time, because—

The Soldier pulled the rifle out of his possession and was gone, into the fray.

And Clint hoped to God the fact that he was alive meant the assassin was on their side.

…okay, yeah, definitely on their side. Clint bared his teeth and reloaded, watching the Soldier’s swath of destruction widen as Clint’s hands slotted in the new clip with practiced ease.

Clint caught movement out the corner of his eye and swore under his breath, swinging the riot shield around and turning to meet the unit coming around the corner and—

Coulson met his gaze with steel in his eyes, jaw set and rifle aimed. Clint signaled, melting internally with relief.

_Two temporary allies. High risk._

Coulson was going to _murder him_ when he realized he’d called Captain America high-risk, but Clint didn’t really have it in him to give a fuck.

Coulson’s people made quick work of it.

Clint took one of the agent’s rifles when he ran out of clips for his. The one the Soldier had taken had been discarded ages ago, replaced with a knife that was downright beautiful under the guy’s hands, carving through the HYDRA goons like they were butter.

As the last of their opponents went down, the Captain and the Soldier moved in unison and Clint really should’ve seen that coming, but fuck.

The Winter Soldier might just be Bucky Barnes.

Because you don’t move with someone like that if you haven’t trained with them, if you haven’t _lived_ with them.

In one fluid move, the Soldier was down on one knee behind a crouched-down-Steve, a rifle barrel leveled across Steve’s shoulder, aimed right at the SHIELD agents, the two of them fitted together just right to not leave a good target unblocked by the riot shield.

Coulson shot him a glance and Clint ran a hand over his face and hoped to fuck that Steve remembered who he was.

Then he stepped past SHIELD’s line, hands at his sides. “Easy, Steve,” he said. “We got friendlies here.”

“Friendlies?” Steve asked, voice hard.

Clint nodded. “Friends of the SSR.”

Steve stood and the Soldier moved with him, the metal arm whirring menacingly as he shifted his grip on the stolen rifle. Steve kept the riot shield up, blocking both of them.

“Anybody I know?” Steve asked.

“You gotta take this one on faith, man. We don’t have any of your old buddies on hand.”  
Steve hesitated, then glanced at the bodies of HYDRA agents surrounding him, taken down by SHIELD bullets, and said: “Dammit. Alright.”

He lowered the shield.

Clint eyed the Soldier. “Gonna have to ask your buddy to lower his rifle, Steve.”

“Buck,” Steve commanded, and the barrel swung down.

“Now that we’re all on the same page,” Coulson said, and if Clint wasn’t Clint, he might not have noticed the tick in the older man’s face that meant he found this whole situation amusing.

“Fuck you, Phil,” Clint muttered as the agent turned and sent the rest of the unit to assist in clearing the rest of the base. “What took you so long?”

“We didn’t get a signal off your GPS until about twenty minutes ago,” Coulson answered. “Maybe try turning it on sooner.”

Coulson’s tone was as dry as a desert, but Clint could see him visually assessing Clint’s health, looking for injuries. The archer huffed a laugh.

“Phil,” he started, feeling like he was verging on hysteria. “You’ll never guess who my cellmate turned out to be.”

Coulson glanced at the two super-soldier war heroes standing down the hall, then looked at Clint worriedly as he started to laugh.

How the _fuck_ was this his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Might end up adding more to this (Steve's POV pre-Clint's-arrival, the aftermath (Steve still doesn't realize he's in the future, so that's gonna be rough), etc) to answer the questions left at the end of this (why did Bucky fight with them, how did Steve know the layout of the base, etc.), but I just wanted to get it out there. Hoped you liked it!


End file.
